


Denial

by thinkatory



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Consent, M/M, Murder, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-07-19 07:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: He doesn't often tell the truth. It's the least among his sins. He smiles through the rage as he's summarily, awkwardly dismissed from what passes as Gibson's room. He daydreams of captaincy, of Billy Gibson tied down to his bed to be kept for whenever he pleased.That's all Gibson is. A pet. And pets are sometimes disobedient, but they do so often come back to their masters.





	Denial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).



> All my thanks to an anonymous beta who helped me flesh (uh, pun not intended) this piece out! I hope you enjoy, smaragdbird.

Hickey isn't the first name he's stolen, but, so far, it is the best. Even despite the cold, the food, the bloody hammocks, and the _stupid_ pious crew, he's leagues ahead of what he had at home in London. There's condescension from nearly everyone, no matter the rank, but it's just a matter of time before that's sorted.

It was only natural to ingratiate himself with someone who was on the edge of the command. Gibson is, in the scheme of things, not important in and of himself, but to Hickey he is vital.

He can feel Billy's desperation in each stolen kiss, and the thrust of his hips against Hickey's hand seeking into his trousers. He wants it, and Hickey is happy to draw him in and get off at the same time. Billy is a beautiful wife to have at sea, and breaks so wonderfully every time he comes.

Billy says nothing as he cleans himself up, a bit red in the face, and Hickey presses a kiss to his blush as he straightens. "No need to fuss," Hickey says, with a faint smile. "You look just fine."

"Yes," Billy says, sharing one small glance before looking away. "I ought to go."

"Go on," Hickey answers. "I'll see you soon enough."

There's work to do. Tedious, awful work. Hickey dreams of a bed as he caulks, lifts, moves, whatever needs doing. He dreams of sharing a drink with his own loyal officers and crushing what passes as command here underfoot like the pestilent insects they are.

* * *

He's not worried about Irving. The more frustrating thing by far is not getting off, not seeing Billy buckle beneath him in pleasure. So he thinks, anyway, until Billy keeps his distance, longer and longer, and Hickey's well-contained anger swims to the surface.

He smiles through it. Little else to do besides bide his time until he can find him alone.

 _You've been a good wife to me._ He doesn't often tell the truth. It's the least among his sins. He smiles through the rage as he's summarily, awkwardly dismissed from what passes as Gibson's room. He daydreams of captaincy, of Billy Gibson tied down to his bed to be kept for whenever he pleased.

That's all Gibson is. A pet. And pets are sometimes disobedient, but they do so often come back to their masters.

His dreams are a terrible jumble. He dreams, mostly, of Billy, of true sunlight in his hair, in the ragged bed he left behind with the name Edward in London, a fuck-weary smile on the man's face. But the creature follows him into his dreams, the chaos it brings, and he dreams that he calls upon it and it keens in answer.

He dreams of a kingdom led to frozen Paradise by his hand.

* * *

It's become distracting. Hickey can't afford to wake up with his chest aching for something he can never have. The inevitable mutiny will be his – it is just a matter of time – but Billy won't meet his eyes. Hickey will get what he wants. There's something in the way.

He watches Billy closely, searching for something in his face that might give away why his adoration for Hickey may have fled. It can't just be fear of Irving. His love hadn't faded that day Gibson ended it in that tiny room. Hickey knows.

It must be something else. Someone else.

At last he sees it, as Billy's gaze lingers on a Marine: a Marine, of course, a man in sharp uniform with power Hickey can only daydream of. It makes horrific sense. It's unacceptable.

He thinks to corner Billy, to accuse him of hypocrisy, but he says nothing. He merely plans, and watches.

* * *

The Marines are rarely alone, but even they have to relieve themselves.

Hickey has fought worse than a Marine in his time. In the end, he beats the back of his head bloody with the butt of his gun until bits of skull litter the ground. He doesn't recall the man's name, but he knows what he might have done with Gibson given the chance. He had no choice.

He drops the man into the hole where Franklin and the Eskie lie in rest. As the body sinks, he feels a sense of perfect contentment pass over him. This must be how God feels, he thinks, at guiding the wayward back to Him by fear and blood. He will win back Billy's faith and devotion, no matter what silly obstacles stand in his way.

"Sorted," he murmurs, his face pink perhaps from the cold. He's done what was necessary. He knows in his heart that the Marine, tall and sleek even in the face of the ice and cold, was making Gibson writhe against the floor of the belly of the ship. He knows that Billy chose incorrectly. He will choose correctly when it comes to the mutiny, now. He will come to Hickey.

* * *

The news of the Marine's disappearance breaks through the ranks. Hickey feigns vague concern when the topic is raised, and even joins a party to find the man. In the end, they chalk the death up to the creature's reign of terror and never suspect a thing.

He focuses his attention on Billy as the days pass. No melancholy seems to overwhelm him in the slightest, no sign of grief. Hickey restrains irritation, near rage, as Billy goes on with his life as though he hasn't lost something, someone valuable. He may just be papering over his true feelings so as not to rouse suspicion, but Hickey knows Gibson's face.

Billy passes by him in the hold after three days pass this way. "Billy," he murmurs.

"What is it, Cornelius?" Billy won't look at him properly. He puts such effort into a cool exterior, and it doesn't fool Hickey for a moment.

"I wondered how you were faring. Times are hard." Hickey smiles, with an edge. "How goes it among our betters?"

Billy sighs. "It all goes according to the Captain's plans," he answers. "You know what I know."

"I asked after you." Hickey keeps his tone penetrating, focused. "Will you not give me that much?"

Billy's expression softens. It makes something leap in Hickey's chest. "I survive, Cornelius. That's all we can ask in a place like this."

"Is it now?" Hickey persists, with a more genuine smile, attention close on Billy's face. "I would think you would seek out more than that."

Billy turns his face from Hickey's gaze. It doesn't keep Hickey from watching him. "I have nothing more to search for in this place. You should know that."

Does he know the truth? Did Hickey reach him through the simple act of disposing of the Marine? He thrills at the thought. "Aim higher, Billy," he says, and touches his shoulder, lingering for only a moment before moving just past him. "This too shall pass."

Billy says nothing. He doesn't need to. Hickey is assured. Everything is working to perfection. He merely needs to wait.

* * *

In the end, it's Billy who raises the plan. Hickey is so very proud.

It's a simple idea. Break away. Strike out on their own. Yes, it's possible. Hickey is the only one with the imagination to carry it through, but everything unfolds in just the right way. Of course, small tweaks are necessary. Small actions with large consequences. That, really, is the way the game is played.

They've made camp under Crozier's dubious orders, out in the open, out where the creature rules. Hickey isn't worried for himself. He knows his dreams will come true. It's a matter of the damage the creature will wreak upon his plans until it comes under his control.

It takes time, and Hickey aches to watch Gibson, whose face is clearly weary. He needs a break. He needs some fun. After dinner, he finds Gibson alone, very briefly, in perfect timing. "Come with me," he suggests.

"Cornelius," Billy says, eyes flashing in concern. "Is it time?"

"Just trust me," Hickey says, and flashes a smile. In the tents and among the flat stones there's little room to hide from prying eyes, but he finds a tent and draws Billy into it. "There's no time. But I must have assurances." He takes Billy's face into his hands. "Tell me you are with me."

"Cornelius," Billy repeats, softer this time, and touches his wrists, bare skin to bare skin, such a distraction – but he's gently pushing Hickey away. "I'm dedicated to our cause. Our survival."

"No." Hickey hauls back the anger. This is not the time. He smiles. "Swear your allegiance to me. I must know."

Billy's afraid. Hickey sees it in his eyes. It's different than the fear of discovery. It's fear of _him_ , and that tangles feelings in a knot in his stomach, an unfamiliar, unwanted feeling. Billy doesn't speak, so Hickey speaks for him. "You are my man. Tell me so."

Billy's hand goes to his chest, and Hickey watches the motion; finally, Billy speaks. "I am your man, Cornelius. You know that well enough. What I have done and promised to do."

Hickey has no time, no time for trifles and wasted opportunities. He seizes Billy's face again in his hands and kisses him, and Billy barely tilts his face into the motion before lightly pushing Hickey just an inch away.

"No," Billy whispers.

"Yes," Hickey says softly. "You can't fool me, Billy. I know your heart."

Billy's face is flushed, just as he's dreamed of. Perfect. "Do you, then?" Billy says.

"I do," he murmurs. "I do, I swear it."

"And what would Cornelius Hickey swear on?" Billy shoots back, all sarcastic.

"The ring I gave you," Hickey says simply, and withdraws, knowing his moment.

* * *

Billy is his man. He comes along without hesitation and helps him establish the new camp without hesitation. His face is impassive but beautiful as he succumbs to every one of Hickey's whims, biting shameful moans into the fabric of the shoddy pillow. No one dares comment. There is no soft captain's bed to lash Billy to, but this is close enough.

Even when Hickey asks, Gibson will not confess his love for his new leader. He will not name his allegiance, even when Hickey presses a hand to his throat. There's little else to do but let him go and suffer on his own until Hickey yearns to convince him again and guides him back into his tent and to the bed.

* * *

There's nothing to be done. Gibson was doomed. His flesh was weak, poisoned by false command, just as Hickey's burns with righteous rage that seems to teem from his every pore and guides his every sharp movement and word.

As he sees Billy suffer in Goodsir's tent, he understands and accepts the situation. Billy said it himself. They must survive. Needs must, and all.

The blade bites into Billy's flesh again and again. His blood is no warmer than any other man's, no matter how he excited Hickey in life.

Hickey does not, cannot, grieve – not for a man who would not confess the truth.


End file.
